


the one who knocks

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Breaking Bad Fusion, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21888595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: Sebastian has the stage four cancer and the knowledge. Charles has the dumb beanie and the experience.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc & Sebastian Vettel, Hanna Prater/Sebastian Vettel
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34





	the one who knocks

If he dies right here and now, there’s one thing he wants to tell his children: Sebastian Vettel is not a criminal, and he is certainly not involved with drugs. 

Behind him, Charles is unconscious, sprawled across the floor of his shitty RV. In front of him, the sirens grow louder, each wail a painful reminder of the horrible punishment awaiting him. He’s not a lawyer, but he knows getting caught with a meth lab on wheels means he won’t see much of the outside world ever again, especially not without any money to hire someone to defend him.

_Goodbye_, Sebastian thinks. Then the police car whizzes past him without a care in the world.

* * *

(There’s a backstory, of course.)

* * *

Lethal diagnoses are a big reason why Sebastian is a chemical engineer, not a doctor. His students and kids call him _soft_. While he hates how demeaning it feels, it’s true; he’s not cut out for straight faces and death sentences. Erlenmeyer flasks are much better conversational partners than humans.

The man across the desk, however, has no such qualms. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vettel, but as you can see here,” Dr. Chandra says, pointing at a white blur on the scan, “it’s spread far too much for surgical intervention to be a viable option.” 

“What about other forms of treatment?” Sebastian asks, though he fears he already knows the answer is—

“They’d be mostly palliative, Mr. Vettel. Chemotherapy could help, but at this stage, sir, I’ll be honest; the side effects usually outweigh the benefits. Of course, that choice is up to the patient. I am merely here to advise you. We have a psychology team here ready to assist you and your family through any hardships…”

At that point, Dr. Chandra’s voice becomes white noise. Why would Sebastian listen? He is going to die in a few months, a couple of years if he’s lucky. Acceptance. He’s always been good at that.

* * *

“Hanna, we need to talk,” he says, setting down the plates. Two large ones for himself and Hanna, three small dishes for the kids. He thinks of the day it’ll be just Hanna and the children, maybe their stepfather if—

Hanna leans over to kiss him on the lips. She puts a spoonful of steamed vegetables on each kid’s plate, much to their chagrin, then serves herself. “What is it, honey?”

Sebastian shakes his head. “Just the two of us. After dinner.”

“No way!” Matilda exclaims, eyes wide. “What’s papa’s secret?”

“Nothing, darling,” Sebastian says. The lie hangs heavy on his shoulders. He looks down at Hanna’s beautiful beef rouladen and wishes he were hungry enough to eat.

* * *

Their bedroom is too large for two.

“Remember when I said I asked Mattia for a trusted doctor? I went to Dr. Chandra last week,” he starts, eyes on his dirty trainers. “Because of my sickness these last few days, I thought I… he had me do some scans, a blood test. And I found out…” 

He can’t finish the sentence. Hanna’s eyes shine with tears, and Sebastian wants to crawl into the ground.

“It’s stage four cancer. Started with my pancreas. It already reached my entire body.”

She cries. Sebastian wraps an arm around her. He doesn’t stay there long, however; a wave of nausea hits him, and he runs to the bathroom to empty his stomach.

When he comes back, face washed and teeth brushed, she kisses him, a soothing hand on his bicep. 

“When are you starting the treatment?” 

Sebastian blinks, surprised by the question. “It’s stage four, darling, it won’t—”

“Are you telling me you aren’t even going to _try_?” 

The indignation in her tone tells him it’s best not to argue; he stays quiet. His silence doesn’t stop her from ranting about their children, his selfishness, his coworkers, and everything in his life.

Not once does she mention the excruciating pain chemotherapy would put him through. _And for what,_ Sebastian wonders. _An extra few months of pain and weakness?_

“You can’t do this to us, to me, Sebastian.”

He goes to sleep with a troubled mind. He doesn’t dream; this time around, it’s nightmares all the way down.

* * *

Despite Hanna’s protests, he decides to keep teaching until the pain gets too much to bear. He drives to school, parks his car in the same spot as always, goes through the lab safety procedures, and scolds his rowdiest students like it’s any other day.

Like he doesn’t have a countdown hanging above his head.

Some of the nicer kids in his classes ask him if he’s feeling all right, to which Sebastian says yes, even though it’s a blatant lie.

The dark circles under his eyes betray his exhaustion, and he barely eats during his lunch break.

* * *

“I need more hours.”

Britta stares at him as if she’s just heard the most absurd thing ever. “Sebastian, you look sick. Some students have come to me asking if you’re okay, because you’re so weak and tired during your classes. I’m not giving you another _second_ if you keep it up.”

Sebastian sighs. “I really need this, Britta. My family’s income could do with some extra help.”

“This is non-negotiable,” she says, crossing her arms defensively. He knows it’s a lost cause. 

What he doesn’t say: I’m going to die, headmistress. I have to leave my three children _something_. 

What he does say: Okay, thank you. Have a nice day.

Polite as always, Mr. Vettel.

* * *

A few days later, Mattia’s on TV for the third time this month. The news correspondent is sucking up to him—they all do.

It’s hard not to be entranced by one of the best narcotics agents in the business.

“Officer Binotto, how much was recovered at the scene?”

“Not much,” Mattia says, faux-humble. “There is around five hundred thousand euro in cash, and some unpacked product we believe is worth around eighty to ninety thousand.”

“Wow,” Sebastian says.

Hanna laughs. “Big shot Matti, it’s go big or go home for him. Ever since we met.”

“How’s he been?”

She turns up the volume and nods to the screen. “Pretty well, I’d say!”

“Maybe I should’ve tried to become a cop,” Sebastian says. _Or a criminal. Think of all the money I could save up. Our children’s futures would be guaranteed. Not like the risks outweigh the pros—I’m going to die either way._

* * *

Hanna’s terrible at keeping offhand comments just that: offhand.

While Sebastian’s making lunch, Mattia shows up at his door, spare bulletproof vest in hand, and tells Sebastian to suit up, because they’re going on a drug bust.

“Excuse me?” Sebastian asks.

“I talked to Hanna,” Mattia explains. “She said you looked really interested in my work, no? We take guests all the time, come on. You’re going to be safe, we have an armoured car for you to stay inside.”

“I was actually preparing lunch—”

“And I’m gonna take it from here,” Hanna interrupts. She hugs Sebastian from behind. “You’ve been down for a while, sweetheart. I think it’d be nice for you to do something you’re interested in.”

A wave of sudden exhaustion washes over him. “Hanna, I don’t think—“

“Hush. Go. Play cops and robbers for a while, I’ll look after the kids,” she says.

Mattia smiles. “You’re still the most persuasive person I know,” he says. He turns to Sebastian. “Shall we?”

* * *

They go to a small, unassuming house that looks like it could belong to a nice little retired couple. According to Mattia, it’s a bustling meth lab.

Something about books and covers and all that.

The cook, Rouge, is on the run from his old dealers, who ratted him out in exchange for a lighter sentence.

“He’s supposed to be here,” Mattia says. “Worst case scenario, we take down a lab. These are expensive to set up.”

Next to him, a grey-haired man snorts. “The quality has dropped significantly in the last few years, though,” he says. He looks back at Sebastian. “You should go inside after we’re done. You’re a chemistry teacher, yeah?”

Sebastian hums noncommittally. “Maybe I can take a look.”

A speaker crackles to life. “All clear. Let’s go.”

Mattia revs up the engine and follows a large truck as it pulls into the driveway.

“You’re going to like watching this,” Mattia says.

It’s a scene straight out of some of Sebastian’s favourite movies: heavily armed agents bust down the door and rush into the target house, yelling at each other and nobody in particular.

“Oh, jeez,” Sebastian murmurs. Behind the truck, he can’t see much, but he watches as a pale man is knocked to the ground and handcuffed. The brutality of it all makes Sebastian wonder if it’s worth it, this lifestyle of hiding out and running from the police.

_There must be a lot of money in it_, he thinks.

“That was fast. They usually try to bargain, run for a while,” says Mattia, one hand on the door handle. A few cops step out into the lawn. “Do you want to go inside, Sebastian? Might be interesting to look at the equipment.”

“Sure.”

“Just let us check in, then. Come on, Maurizio.”

While his hosts go into the meth lab and check for any safety concerns, Sebastian leans against the cold window and watches. This is a quiet neighbourhood; he doesn’t expect anything to happen. Until it does.

In the house next door, a young man jumps out of a second-floor window—in his birthday suit. Inside the room, a scrawny kid tosses him a handful of clothes: black hoodie, ripped jeans, and a ridiculous red beanie that immediately tips Sebastian off. He’s seen this on one too many lowered heads during his lectures. 

_I know this guy._

The man turns around, holding on to a pipe to avoid slipping down the roof, and Sebastian finally gets a good look at him. Baby face, scattered acne, uneven stubble, blue eyes—

“Jesus, is that…?”

As if on cue, their eyes meet. Sebastian is frozen still, watching as his former student gets dressed and dashes to a red Mustang across the street, _Le Rouge_ emblazoned on its rear glass.

* * *

He has no idea why, but he doesn’t tell Mattia.

The only one who knows about Sebastian’s sudden interest in Charles Leclerc is the school’s list of former students. 

* * *

Charles’ house manages to be even worse than the one the police had broken into. Calling it a shithole would be a disservice to shitholes everywhere—awful paint job, grass mustn’t have seen a lawnmower in decades, Sebastian is fairly sure that’s a dead rat under the very same car he’d seen two days ago, and Jesus, the _smell_.

“Anyone home?”

At that, Charles pops up from behind the Mustang, covered in soot and grime. 

“What the hell?” Charles yells, raising his wrench and pointing it at Sebastian. “What are you doing here?”

Sebastian raises his hands. “Put that down. I just want to talk.”

“Yeah, sure. You think I didn’t see you in that drug bust? I am not _stupid_, Mr. Vettel.” 

“I’ve got a proposal for you, Charles. Calm down.” 

Charles drops the wrench on the floor and steps forwards, crowding Sebastian against the broken fence. “What do you want?”

Don’t drop it on him all at once. Ease him into the idea. “This lifestyle… there’s a lot of money in it, right?”

“Look, if you want to lecture me, just—”

“I don’t want to lecture you. I’ve done that enough,” Sebastian cuts in. “My friend, the officer who took me to the… operation… he says there’s ridiculous money in this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that. And?”

Sebastian walks around Charles, towards the Mustang, and taps the hood of the car, nonchalant. “You have all your… connections, your business model. And I know some chemistry. So I think we should be partners.”

There’s a brief silence in which Sebastian regrets every life decision he’s ever made.

“You want to cook crystal meth,” Charles deadpans. At Sebastian’s nod, he snorts in disbelief. “My chemistry teacher wants to cook meth with me.”

He lets Charles have his moment of mockery; he stands there and watches him laugh and laugh and laugh as if he’s heard the funniest joke in the world. Then, he strikes back, an ultimatum no hotshot dealer could refuse.

“It’s that, or…” Sebastian pauses. He’s never been too fond of this kid; if Charles gets arrested, it’s not going to keep him up at night. “I can turn you in tomorrow morning, and trust me, you’re going to _hate_ being in prison.”

They shake hands on it.

**Author's Note:**

> Charles looked a lot like Jesse Pinkman while wearing a red beanie, Seb had that hideous moustache, I got some ideas. Boom.
> 
> I know the ending is unsatisfying but I can’t do plot, so I just stopped there. Sorry!
> 
> singlemalter on Tumblr.
> 
> (FUCK FLAMENGO.)


End file.
